


scratches

by spaceOdementia



Category: The Wolf Among Us
Genre: F/M, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6358978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceOdementia/pseuds/spaceOdementia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dealing with the crimes of the Crooked Man in Fabletown, Bigby and Snow have a heart to heart. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scratches

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this sometime in 2014, and without researching properly, so the alluded dance scene that occurs between Bigby and Snow in the comics is mentioned as happening before these events, when in reality the game is set decades before the comics. Hur hur. I hope this doesn't offend anyone. It was for a good cause.

It never seems to matter if they win a case. For the good of Fabletown, for the good of his reputation, whatever it is. Fabletown feels like stagnant water, and it will be centuries of solving cases like this one before the Fables look at him with complete, utter respect instead of fear.

He shouldn’t care so much, so he sits in his armchair and stares at his ceiling. To recover from days of insomnia takes sleep. Sleep doesn’t like him. He has a hard enough time making friends with anyone alive.

So he sits, stares, grabs a glass of bourbon and stares some more. He sits and waits. Car horns sound outside his apartment walls, the wind whistles its nighttime song every few minutes, reminding him that night can be peaceful.  
  
He can listen to the distant leaves ruffling on their trees, can hear citizens' wayward footsteps on the pavement. The night walkers and the jaded and the homeless, whichever one they might be, traversing the lonely streets of the New York neighborhood.  
  
If he concentrates, he can smell the sewage underneath the streets, the rotting decay of waste and the thin mist of smog slipping down from the atmosphere and in between the buildings like a slow rainfall.  
  
He reaches into his pant pocket, grabbing his box of Huff 'n' Puff and procures a cigarette. He inhales all the shit and poison deep inside, and his nose is filled with ash and blood with nicotine. It is a rush in his system and a death to his senses all at once. It's soothing and rough, comforting and dulling. It keeps his mind distracted and tired, anything to keep from dwelling on the scent ten floors above him.  
  
There was one double homicide solved, sure, but that doesn't mean much in the long run. As the saying accurately states, there is no rest for the weary nor the wicked. He's still pretty wicked in the eyes of all the fabled in Fabletown. It is a challenge, most of the time, for him to see any of the faith or belief or anything softening in the eyes of the people and creatures. So he doesn't look too hard. Disappointment, especially fabricated by unfounded hopes, is a terrible burden.  
  
He closes his eyes and sighs out a plume of smoke. Today was a success, and tomorrow is just another day

 

* * *

 

 

The line for the Business Office is still long when he reaches his own small office down the hallway, and he hears the trill of Snow White’s voice call for the next person in line at the passing of every hour.

After a few signed papers, Bigby takes out TJ’s gift from his pocket, placing it on the corner of his desk. It would be a while before he had the chance to swing it by Snow, and while at least ninety-five percent of the Fables took her for granted, didn’t agree with her, or made her life—and his included—twice as shitty as they could be, at least it would be a sweet thing for her to know that she had a fan in a prepubescent frog who was—coincidentally—booted to the farm by her orders. And yet, that frog still cared for her enough to give her a gift, anyway.

The rest of the day passes with paperwork for Bigby, and Snow just gets through with listening to all of the Fables who were in line at her door. When he hears the last person come out of the door, the day is breaking into evening, and he can smell Snow in her office, exhausted and well worn. The feeling rolls off her in waves.

He glances at the gift box staring at him from the corner. He gives one last puff of his cigarette, snuffs it, then grabs the box and stands. Now’s probably a good time to cheer up an ex-princess.

He makes his way down the hallway, unconsciously tightening his tie out of habit. He stops in front of the Business Office door, and, not hearing Snow talking on the phone or sounding particularly busy, he walks into the room unannounced.

Her musk fills the space, unrelenting, spicy, and decadent. She’s rubbing at her forehead, eyes closed, and leaning backward in the large, red office chair. It all but consumes her small frame.

When she hears him close the door, her eyebrows immediately fall down in irritation, bunching up her face. “I’m sorry, but the Office is closed for the night. If you’ll leave your name, I can get back to you first thing in the—“ she interrupts herself when she opens her eyes, the words dying on her tongue when she sees him. “Oh, Big—Mr. Wolf. I didn’t realize it was you.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. One day after solving a stressful, gut-wrenching murder spree, and she’s all back to formalities.

“Long day, Miss…Snow?” He tries, but in any case, it feels awfully strange to call her Miss _White_.

“I…yes,” she says, words coming out slow. It could be because of his choice in how to address her, or it could be her thinking about her long day. He’s not sure, but her look is hard and lingering. “Yes, a very long day with several…forceful suggestions.”

Bufkin takes that moment to land on a high cabinet in the corner of the room, holding a bottle of bourbon in his lap. He takes a mighty sip of it, obviously also feeling the stresses of the day.

“You should let him know now to save you a glass,” Bigby suggests.

“Make that two or three,” she says good-naturedly. Then she sighs and clears her throat. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

He comes forward, closer to her desk. He crosses his arms. “About what?”

“Just…about this past week,” she says, curling a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “I know I’ve said it before, but I…all of us, we couldn’t have done it without you. And I wanted to formally thank you. Not—“ she says, hurrying to continue before he was able to reply. “Not because you’re sheriff. I know it’s your job, and you’ll say it’s your duty. Which it is, but…you showed tremendous resilience and even compassion during the more difficult times. You’ve grown. You’ve shown Fabletown how you can help them, and how you want to help them. And though you were a bit reckless with your life, and we didn’t see eye to eye on every decision, we were able to compromise with each other and still stand united through the hard parts. I…wouldn’t have been able to do that with anyone else.” She pauses, looking at him for a few moments with a thoughtful gaze, and then she straightens her already straightened blouse, in the same way that he adjusts his tie on occasion. Clearing her throat, she continues, “So truly, Mr. Wolf…Bigby, thank you.”

He can feel his heart swell a tiny bit bigger than its true size. He gives her a crooked half-smile. She smells relieved once she finishes, and a touch content when she sees his reaction. He could easily preen with all this appreciation she’s giving him, but he’ll attempt to swallow it all in stride. Besides, it’s not every day he gets this amount of direct, pure attention from Snow. And for a creature like him to get it from a woman like her, it’s insanely humbling.

Still, it doesn’t matter what she said or how she responded to him in their most dire moments this week—he knows she’s never been completely on his side of the fence where emotions are concerned.

He might be a wolf, but he sure acts like a pussy when the heart is at the front of matters. And though it wouldn’t take much to ignore and rebut her continual rejections, he’s just not that kind of…guy. She is just as much a broken creature as he is, and probably more so in the emotional realm of her psyche. He has much to offer her, he’d like to think. Real, raw affection, and love, and even…doting, maybe. He’s never doted on anyone in his life, but he’s sure he could handle something like that, couldn’t he? More charming than Prince Charming, more genuine than that asswipe. More honest than Crane, the sick bastard, and not nearly as forceful as the fucking dwarves. Not nearly as coldhearted as her evil stepmother.

Besides all that, however, the matter was about mutual success. She did not want him, or feel for him, nor did she desire him or see herself to be happy with him. She cares for him, yes, and that’s a handhold he’ll happily grasp onto. But, her happiness with herself and who she chooses, in its purest and most honest form, is the thing he most desires for her. He’ll verbalize it to her, because he can sense her emotions about it, and about him, and how they crescendo on certain days. He’ll needle her that way—but he’ll never overstep his boundaries.

He’d take her smiles and appreciation for all their damn worth, because it is so sweet. He will revel in this beautiful offer.

“Well, Miss Snow White,” he says. “Those are a lot of nice words you have for me, and you’re right, I will only answer that everything—all of this—is my job and my duty. And I usually answer to my _first_ name, when called.”

It’s obvious she wasn’t expecting his answer. She looks at him silently, as if not sure what to say. Then she coughs out an amused, abashed laugh.

“After a case like the one we just had, I fell back into comfortable formalities with everyone.”

He thinks about it. “I’m not everyone.”

“No…no, you’re not.”

“He’s the Big Bad Wolf!” Bufkin suddenly shouts, slurred and drunken from his spot on the cabinet. “He’ll huff and puff and—“ he says, pushing out his tiny chest in a grand show of what Bigby used to look like. And then he takes too large of a step, misses the wooden expanse of his cabinet, and falls to the floor.

Both Bigby and Snow look down at where he had fallen, but they’re answered with hysterical laughter. It dies in a large hiccup, and they both give each other a shared glance.

“Wish it was as easy to get drunk as it is for him,” Bigby states.

“You’re telling me,” Snow answers, smiling at him.

Bigby shoves his hands in his pockets, then feels the gift he’s supposed to give her. It saves him from letting himself stare.

“Uh, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” she says, her face surprised. She comes around her desk with curious eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s actually from TJ,” he says. “He wanted me to give it to you since they had to go to the Farm.”

“TJ,” she says, frowning slightly. “If only his father wasn’t such a stickler for breaking the rules.”

“TJ, though, he’s a good kid.” He takes the box out of his pocket and hands it over to her, and she gently receives it into her hand. She handles it as if it’s delicate crystal, and it’s at that moment Bigby realizes she must have not been given a gift in a very long time.

She opens it with care, and she stares at the dead, vibrant blue bug inside. She furrows her brows.

“It’s the bug he showed me, once, a while back.”

“Got a good memory, then. He said you liked it because of the color.”

“Yes. I do. A good memory.”

“Well, don’t look so upset about it. He said it’s one of the cooler bugs. Because it…spews out poison juice when it’s threatened or…something like that. Kind of like you.”

At her look, he amends by saying, “I mean figuratively, you know.”

She cracks a smile for him, and he smiles back, but he notices how sad this silly little gift makes her, and he’s not sure if it’s because it’s from TJ or because it’s a dead bug. Hell, he thought it’d delight her.

“I…this is…what a nice gift.”

Bigby watches her. She sighs.

“Was it so wrong of me to send them to the Farm?”

Ah. So that was it. He scratches his chin. “Well, not wrong. Toad messed up with the law a lot, but he did try to scrape the money. I couldn’t continue to give him the funds, in the long run. He would have had trouble during the next months.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, and she looks a little bit brighter. “I appreciate this. After a tiring day, this was very nice, Bigby.”

“Anytime, Snow.”

They glance at one another for a few seconds.

“Is there…um, anything that you need that I can do?” she asks.

If she knew what a loaded question she was asking of him, she probably would have never asked in the first place. He smiles at her wryly, inhaling the air around her deeply, and then exhaling her out.

“All I need,” he says. “Is sleep. Of any kind.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Me too.”

“I’ll let you get to it, then,” he says, needing more than wanting, to leave.

“Yeah, okay,” she says, and before he walks through the door, she says, “Bigby?”

He looks at her.

She hesitates, then says, “I’ll…see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Snow.”

With that, he leaves her and finds his way into his apartment. He sleeps, deeply for once, with the smell of her settling all around his pillow, and the wolf breathes with sound delusions—but just for this one lonely night.

 

* * *

 

 

Or, for half the night. It did turn out to be a great six hours, and that’s much more than he’s gotten in weeks. Not to mention the dream he was having, running wild in the icy hillsides of Canada, Snow’s scent wrapped around his nose and his body, blocking every other smell and breeze and landscape, filling up his soul with the most warmth he’s felt in a lifetime.

And now it’s over. Kind of. It’s never truly over. She’s on his nose every second of every year. His face twitches at the continuous tapping at his apartment door, but his nose is still filled with the vestiges of the dream. It’s so heavy around his eyes that it doesn’t even bother him that there’s some kind of wandering jackass deciding to rouse him at…

He looks at his bedside clock. 2:30 in the fucking morning. He sighs, not bothering to grab his shirt or pants. He’ll see who it is, what they want, and then tell them what a moron they are and to get out of his face.

His eyes are still foggy from the smell. Why is he still drunk on her smell? It was just a dream. It’s never been this bad in the past, before, when this happens. He runs a hand over his face, viciously rubbing at his eyes and nose. He stumbles over to the door, half-lidded and half-stoned, and it just seems to get worse the closer he gets.

He growls, then opens the door with unceremonious fervor, snarling, “What the fuck do you want?”

Suddenly the scent bombards him like a landslide of boulders. If he thought it was bad before, it’s ten times as worse when the door stands open. He blinks at the figure, suddenly at alert and attention.

“Snow.”

“Bigby…” she says, glancing over him quickly, then looking away with an awkward air. Her hair is in a haphazard bun, a few stray strands falling around her face and shoulders. She crosses her arms in a protective stance, looking everywhere but at him. He guesses he should have put some pants on.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, indulging himself by keeping her embarrassed. He leans against the doorjamb.

“Um, I uh, I couldn’t sleep. And I just…I mean I…” she sighs roughly, shaking her head. “God, I don’t even know why I’m here.”

It strikes him that she’s come to his apartment door just because.

“No one’s head is on the front porch, is there?”

That provokes her to look at him, her eyes stern. “Ha-ha, I didn’t realize you could joke.”

He shrugs. “I can’t.”

“You’re not good at lying, either.”

She smiles, and he desperately needs a smoke. He nearly reaches for the pocket on his pants that he’s not wearing.

She notices but doesn’t say anything. She clears her throat. He gives her a knowing look and she pushes a wayward strand out of her face.

“Wanna come in?”

She seems to hesitate. “Perhaps for a little while.”

He moves out of the doorway. “For as long as you’d like.”

“Well, maybe if you put some pants on…”

“You’re lucky I didn’t decide to go commando, tonight.”

He notices her blush. He grins wide like a wolf.

“You do that?”

“In the summertime.”

“Oh,” she says.

He goes to his bedroom to fetch his pants. And his cigarettes. Thank God.

He comes back to the room, flicking on his lighter. He inhales deeply, and it shields him with partial strength. When she’s so close, it’s almost not useful. The temptation is also high and difficult.

He has one wooden chair and one armchair that decorates his apartment. He motions for her to take her pick, but she chooses the wooden chair. He takes his place in his armchair.

“I’m…sorry to disturb you at so late an hour.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t sleep much.”

“Makes two of us.”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“So did anyone make any considerable requests? Something that would make the government fold under?”

Her lips quirk. “No, not that extreme today. Fortunately. But most of the Fables have small complaints that would be fixed up quick if we had more money to give out. Free handouts. That’s not how it works.” She frowns. “Sometimes, I think most of the Fables are just…lazy. They don’t work very hard. They’re not used to working hard to support themselves. At least, the Fables that come to see me. I don’t mean to complain,” she says, shaking her head. “But I care about them—you know I do—and most just seem to try to abuse the system.”

Bigby looks at her for a moment. “They probably think they can abuse you.” He grimaces at the word choice. Snow shifts in her seat.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Her tone chills him, while simultaneously warms him with a string of sympathy. Too bad she doesn’t smoke.

“Ah…want a drink?”

He can see her debating. Her lips pout, her eyebrows fall down to her eyes. Then she looks at him, and she relaxes in her chair. He raises his eyebrows at her. He can’t make out what her glance means.

“I’ll drink if you do.”

“Is that even a question?”

He stands and fetches the glasses and pours a few fingers of his bourbon stash. He returns to the room and hands her the drink. She nods her thanks, taking an immediate sip while trying to hide her cringe when she swallows.

“Not a fan of bourbon?” he asks.

“Oh, no, I am,” she says. “It’s just usually…mixed with something. But I like it this way. It’s better.”

He gives her a dubious look, but sits back down in his chair. He motions toward his kitchen.

“There’s always the tap if you need to cut the strength.”

She scoffs at the suggestion. “Please. I’ve been around for a few centuries, and I can handle my alcohol very well.”

He somehow doubts this bravado she’s showing about her previous excursions into alcohol consumption. A delicate flower she is not, but she manages, after years and years, to maintain an air of dainty sophistication. Even though she can powerhouse through the most despicable Fables.

“I never said you couldn’t,” he replies.

As if to prove her point, she takes a long draught from her glass. Nearly half of it is gone when she finishes, and he knows if she continues like this, she’ll be on her ass by the end of half an hour.

He grasps his mind for something to say to slow her down.

“So, uh, I saw Bluebeard arrive at your office this morning.”

“Yes,” she says, “he came by. He managed to set himself up for an appointment first, of course. God forbid he was pushed back to second in line.”

“He never does take it lightly when he’s ignored for five minutes,” he agrees. “What did he want?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. He wanted to talk about finances, the future of the treasury, how privileged we are to have him as a monetary asset to the government and how I, disregarding the conflicts we’ve had in the past, can’t forget the high valued stake he places in all affairs of Fabletown.”

“Ah,” Bigby says. “Someone wants a seat at the adult’s table.”

Snow rubs at her forehead, taking another hearty sip. It’s not nearly as dramatic as the one from before, but it seems he’ll need to replenish her soon.

"Bluebeard was a pompous, arrogant asshole as he usually is, acting as if he belongs on a higher plane than the rest of us."  
  
Bigby takes a drink. "He didn't propose an engagement contract, too, did he?"  
  
Snow White's laugh reverberates through the room, filling up the empty spaces. "If he tried anything like that again, I'd question the little, if any, sanity that he had to begin with."  
  
"He's never had any sense, common or otherwise."  
  
"Such a creep, too," she replies, in a softer voice.  
  
He takes a drag. "He comes off like that toward you because you have fairer skin and...uh, a symmetrical face. It probably doesn’t hurt that you look like your sister, either.”  
  
She raises her right eyebrow, but she must tune out his last comment because she still seems to be in good humor.  
  
"A symmetrical face?"  
  
"You know," he says in a gruff tone, shifting an inch in his seat. "I've heard that it's a universally accepted feature that constitutes higher levels of…attractiveness.”  
  
"You've heard this around for a few centuries, have you?"  
  
"Here and there," he admits cheekily. "You know what you look like, Snow."  
  
"I know what I look like," she drawls. "What do I look like to you?"  
  
His lips turn into a smirk--or a grimace. He has a hard time defining the two.  
  
"Do you remember," he says, "the first Remembrance Day ball I attended?"  
  
"I was your date," she answers, a bit offended.  
  
He takes a large inhale. "Shouldn't that answer all you need to know?"  
  
She scrunches her nose in distaste. "Not all of us can be as perceptive as you, Bigby. You're gonna have to explain it to me."  
  
He twitches. "You're more perceptive than you admit to, Snow. You're smart. You know exactly what I'm saying."  
  
"So what I look like to you..." she says. "Is smart, perceptive, and attractive enough to you for you to take me on a date."  
  
He smiles. "See? That wasn't so hard."  
  
"That's one way to avoid answering directly," she sighs, though her tone is light and her eyes are dreamy from her two shots of alcohol. "I didn't expect you to shy away from the question."  
  
"What?" he says. "I didn't shy away."  
  
"Hm," she replies, glancing at him then at the glass in his hand. "You should drink more of that."  
  
He stares at her. "If you want to get me drunk, I'm sorry, Snow. It doesn't happen."  
  
"It doesn't happen? Or you don't let it?"  
  
He grunts. “I’ve managed to gain a pretty high tolerance during this job.”

“Higher than Bufkin’s?”

He scratches his chin. “I’m not even close to Bufkin.”

She answers with a sudden laughing snort. She’s able to make it cute.

“I didn’t know former princesses could snort,” he says.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I sweat, too. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he says, and he’s surprised to find how enjoyable this is. Not that—well, he figured he’d screw it up for himself, somehow. For both of them. Say something too…hopeful, and make her angry.

He’s sure the bourbon doesn’t hurt, either.

“You know,” she says, placing her now empty glass on his table. “Speaking of the Remembrance Day celebration…was that the last time you danced?”

He’s transported back to the ballroom, Snow wearing that skin tight black number. How he’d stepped on her toes the whole time, and how they might have shared an adventure stealing food from the back kitchen if he hadn’t been solving her sister’s “murder”. How he couldn’t smoke while dancing. How her fingers burned his skin underneath his jacket.

It’s nearly embarrassing just thinking about those few minutes he spent with her. “Yeah, it was the last time.”

“Why?”

“If you remember, I have two left feet.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I think the Snow from a hundred years ago would disagree with you.”

“Besides,” she continues, ignoring him. “Just because you’re not the best at something doesn’t mean you quit.”

“In my case it does. And besides,” he mocks. “You usually need two people to dance.”

She puckers her lips. “There are several ladies to dance with in New York, and the world. Well, the Mundies have a very large collection. The Fables have a significantly smaller selection.”

Bigby carefully avoids looking at her face. “I’ve never been interested in the affairs of the Mundies.”

He can feel her staring hard at the side of his face. “And I’m guessing you don’t have an interest in the Fable women, either?”

“…no.”

She hums. “You know what I think?”

He takes a slow drink. “No, Snow, I have no idea what you think.”

“I think the Fable women could be interested.”

His eyes dart to her after her statement, and he grits his teeth momentarily. “I don’t think so. They never have before.”

“I’m sure they have. And you know what else?”

“What?” he growls, and it comes out meaner than he means. But, whether fortunately or unfortunately, she takes no heed.

“I think that girl Nerissa would love to dance with you.”

That provokes a laugh out of him. He just wants to say Nerissa is dead, but he’ll probably tell her about that whole debacle later, when the interest in the case cools down and it doesn’t come off as such a giant bomb on what they believed to have happened. And it would also probably sober Snow up, and no one wanted that.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“I don’t think Nerissa would think toe stepping would be endearing.” Finishing his cigarette, he reaches for the box to tap out another. “No self-respecting lady would.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Snow answers. “And I also don’t believe that you’re saying it like that because you _don’t_ have some interest in the realm of women.”

“Maybe I just don’t have an interest in Nerissa.”

She’s silent for a moment. “You don’t have to…lie to me, Bigby.” She’s able to catch his eye, much to his disgruntlement. It’s hard to look away, so he has to keep the stare. “I saw how you’d look at her, and she seemed very comfortable with you when she was in…your company.”

“Did she?” he says, mostly because he’s interested in how her face looks, and how her scent begins to change tone. The smoke keeps him from detecting the full sharpness of what she’s feeling, but he knows isn’t satisfaction.

“Yes,” she says. “I know she was scared and desperate when she would talk to you, but I’m also a woman, too. Girls can tell these things.”

“Hm,” he allows, glancing away and toward the wall. He finishes off his bourbon and motions to hers. “Want another?”

“Please,” she says, and he notices how she shies away from him when he reaches across her to retrieve her glass. When he returns and hands her glass back, she takes it, but she stops him by touching his forearm.

“You…you deserve the ultimate happiness, Bigby.”

Her eyes are big and blue. They’re empathetic and compassionate. He drowns for a moment, then he comes back to himself.

“Not as much as you, Snow.”

If she would only let him try to give her that. He’s so certain that he could.

Her mouth parts slightly at his answer, and she releases him from her touch. She takes another deep drink. “You have to believe in happiness for yourself, first. I’ve heard trusting in others is the first step.”

“I think that’s a reasonable first step.”

She drinks again. “I trust you,” she says.

“Also reasonable,” he says. “I’m the sheriff.”

She shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he asks.

“You do,” she emphasizes, her eyes brilliant and glassy.

He’s compelled to touch her, her hair, her hand, whatever. He stays back. He is strictly forbidden. Can’t cross that line.

“Maybe,” he says. Then he sighs. “What are you getting at, Snow? I can’t read your fucking mind.”

The alcohol induced Snow is unfazed by his direct vulgarity. Usually, he never uses the tone with her. She doesn’t seem to care.

“In all your years, as human or as wolf, I’ve never heard or seen you pursue someone. Why?”

It’s getting much too personal, in the wrong realm. “All I cared about as a wolf was eating. All I care about as a human is reform and keeping our community somewhat decently protected.”

“And you’ve never had the urge to…?”

He scowls, smoking profusely. “I’ve _pillaged_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

She blushes, and he can’t drink fast enough. He doesn’t think his drunken self would believe the red in the apples of her cheeks was unbecoming, anyway. Who was he kidding? It makes her smell ripen at a higher intensity. He rubs his face roughly.

“No, that’s not what I was implying!” she says, trying to overcome her embarrassment. “I just meant…courtship.”

“Courtship,” he repeats.

“Yes,” she says. “Why haven’t you…?”

“It seems you’ve forgotten, Snow,” he says, preparing himself to make the blow that will get her out of his apartment. If he doesn’t, he’s going to cave, and then it’ll get really messy. “I do try. I get rejected. Boo fucking woo.”

She stares at him. “But…that’s…”

“You told me to never ask you again. Never to attempt anything that would imply that I would even dare to try. But I do that. Remember? The first time, I stepped on your toes,” he drawls. “I tricked you into the date. You laughed at my confession.”

“That was a long time ago,” she says softly.

“Prince Charming was a long time ago, too, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve moved on very far.”

Her back straightens. Her eyes glitter like icicles. “Don’t you dare try to pull that bastard into any of this discussion. He doesn’t deserve your attention. He doesn’t deserve for you to try to use him against me.”

He can’t bring himself to hurt her anymore. He puffs on his cigarette in silence.

“I’ve done well for myself, on my own. I don’t need anyone to make me happy. I can make myself happy, and if I want to be with someone, and to share thoughts and ideas and part of my life with someone, I _will.”_

He looks at her for a long time, and she looks back.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I believe you.”

“And, like I said,” she says, tucking the same strand that loosened itself earlier from her bun behind her ear. “I trust you.”

“I trust you, too.”

“You can…try again, you know.”

“What?”

She bites her lip, and she drinks the rest of her glass. She places it on the table with care. “Step on my toes,” she says.

He looks her way until she turns her face to him. “I don’t think so,” he says.

She stills for a moment, blinks, then clears her throat. She gracefully stands, and brushes off her skirt. The only thing to suggest her body is warm and full of liquor is the light dusting of rose across the bridge of her nose. “Alright, then. It’s been a long time, and I’ve overstayed my welcome,” she says. “Thank you for the drinks, Bigby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She wobbles ever so slightly as she turns and makes her way to the door. It takes him four strides to cut in front of her. She stumbles at his appearance.

“I said I’ll see you—“

“I know what you said,” he says. “And I said I don’t want to step on your toes.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she says, and he’s starting to see and smell the turbulent emotions that are starting to expound into her blood. “I heard you loud and clear, Bigby.”

The allusion of her words makes him pause. He didn’t think she wouldn’t remember that day as clearly as he still did, but it happens to shock him all the same.

 “Snow—“ he starts, and she tries her best, tipsily, to push past him. He secures her waist, and her nose brushes his neck. He somehow manages to keep standing. “I want you to teach me.”

“Teach you?” she snipes. “Why? For all those Fables you’re interested in? Nerissa gave you her number, didn’t she? She still has to show you how grateful she is to the Big Bad Wolf for saving her from the clutches of—“

“Shut up, Snow,” he says, his fingers digging in with slightly more pressure. He can feel the bone of her hip in his palms. She, miraculously, shuts up. But she inhales first, and it can’t be called a gasp because it’s so faint and small. He feels the air move around his neck, and he watches the movements of her face.

She puts her hands on top of his. She must see something in his face, or his stance, or maybe he made it obvious enough in the way he handles her. Her anger uncoils and dissipates. “Bigby.”

This has to be as far as he’ll go. He can’t cross the line any further. It is a pathetic living, deadening his senses to protect himself from insanity. Being near immortal, while it gives him time to adapt or how he should adapt, is only a torture in itself. The longer he lives among the Fabletown community surrounded by several hundreds of thousands of people and smells and lives and heartbeats and thoughts and dreams, the tougher it is to keep his mind in check.

He would block out Snow if he could. He would tune her scent out and not let himself care as much about her. But it is something he’s accepted because he _does_ care.

He relaxes his hold on her, but she presses his hands into her when she notices. Then she lifts her hands and places them around his neck.

“Slow dancing,” she answers to his, probably terrorized, look. “This is the position you take for it. Couples’ bodies touch, and they sway. And that’s it. Simple.”

Simple, right. This one is too provoking. Whoever thought of this as a dance is either ignorant, stupid, or genius. Her body is warm, and her skin is soft and pliable underneath her blouse and skirt.

“You…don’t have to teach me this now,” he says. His mind is foggy. He squints. “I just meant that you…well, later, we could…I don’t know. Actually go somewhere where there’s music to dance to.”

Her eyes are piercing. “I like it right here.”

“I think you’re drunk,” he says.

She smiles at him. He’s sweating.

“Just mildly buzzed.”

“So I guess you’ll remember this.”

“Of course.”

“Snow—“

“What else do you want me to teach you?”

Her breath hits his face, sweet and moist, smoky from the bourbon. His thoughts muddle and spark.

He swallows, trying to keep it together. “I’m, uh, not well versed in any of the aspects of courtship, so I don’t think you could really do anything about that.”

“Really? You don’t think I could?”

He should have known she’d take that as a challenge of some kind. He internally explodes. Outwardly, he fidgets.

“I’m very unrefined.”

She takes one hand away from his shoulders and touches his cheek. There’s a faint marking of a cut there that he forgot to heal completely. She rubs her thumb soothing over the sensitive skin.

He’s only a few inches taller than she is in human form. It’s so simple for her when she tugs his head down to kiss him.

It’s chaste and light, almost…friendly.

His lungs tremble. She looks up at him. He wants to do it again.

So he does. She lets him.

He backs away for a second, watching her face, smelling the tone of her scent. It’s…very accommodating. Content, even, if he’s so bold to place that emotion. Assured by this, he slowly drags a hand from her hip up to her face. He hovers before letting his fingers place the same wayward strand behind her ear. Her eyelids fall half-way down her eyes when he grazes her cheek.

“You can…do it again,” she says quietly. She trails the other hand that was still on his shoulder down to the hand still on her hip. She blazes a gentle trail up his forearm, landing at the inner bend of his elbow.

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He touches her face while he goes forward to kiss her. She curls her fingers around his bicep, and her other is at his shoulder once more. He pulls her hip forward into his and his hand wraps around her head, hair falling around his palm and her mouth opening just slightly.

And once she does that, his instincts are fully enforced. He can’t stop. She doesn’t make him stop. His tongue searches her mouth, the wetness of it a euphoric pool of nectar. She searches back, curiously and slower, pursuing him in only a way that she can. Her hands trail up his arm and down his shoulder to his chest, and her nails snag in a gentle clasp around his shirt. His heart beats in a catastrophic rhythm under her hands, and he knows she can feel it, separated by only cloth, bone and skin.

She moans sweetly, and he backs away from her just slightly enough to eye her. She bumps his nose and matches his stare. She breathes in, and she exhales, “I didn’t think you’d prefer briefs.”

If he didn’t know her as well as he does, he’d think she was being coy and flirtatious. He’s never witnessed her…flirt before, with anyone. “Over what? I’d never choose boxers. Too much fabric.”

“I thought you’d sleep naked.”

“Is that why you came?” he growls.

Her fingers touch the waistband of his pants. “No…no. But…” she trails, and she seems a little uncertain. “I think I want you.”

He should jump on the chance. “If you don’t know, then you probably don’t want me.”

“What do you want?” she asks.

He doesn’t know what answer she’s looking for, if she’s looking for one at all. “You know I’ve never been interested in anyone else.”

“You’ve been interested in me, only, all these years?”

He almost laughs. “I don’t know how much more obvious you want me to make it.”

She kisses him hard, pulling him closer against her. “Oh, Bigby. I haven’t done any of this in a long time.”

“I’m…” he says, not knowing what he’s going to tell her. “I’ve never done it.”

She holds his face in between both of her hands. She bites her lip. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

It is an unreasonable, naïve question. He answers just as unreasonably.

“I’d never hurt you.”

She’s beginning to become very emotional. He can smell the saline lining her eyes, but it isn’t a saddened smell. “You would have to be willing to go…very slow.”

He grins at this. “The funny thing about us is that we have a lot of time stashed away.”

She touches his chin with her finger. “You’re right. You seem to be right a lot of the time.”

“That’s why you hired me,” he says quietly.

She experiments, moving her hand up to his hair, fingering through some of the strands. He nearly moans at the feeling.

“Can I stay here, tonight?” she asks, whispering. “But just to sleep,” she adds.

“Don’t seem so anxious,” he says. “Like you think I would say no to you?”

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then she smiles. She dazzles.

She steps back, entwines their hands, and leads them to his small bedroom. “It’s not your queen-sized master, but…”

“You know I don’t care,” she says, bumping his shoulder.

“And the others…if they see you leave from here, that’s all they’ll talk about.”

She shrugs. “Everyone thinks we’ve been bumping headboards for years, anyway.”

He grins at that, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s with that shit-eating grin?” she asks.

He pulls her to him before the bed. “It’s elating that the Fables think I get to make love to Snow White on a semi-regular schedule.”

She keeps blushing. It makes him think she isn’t several centuries old. He kisses her goodnight.

“Sleep well, Snow. I’ll be on the armchair if you need anything.”

“You’re leaving?” she says, sounding surprised.

“I was going to give you….space,” he tries. He believed she wouldn’t want him there with her.

They hold eye contact for a moment. “I…don’t want to steal your bed all to myself. You can stay with me.”

Very un-Snow-like, he thinks, but this is a step in the right direction. He smiles.

She sits then scoots to the other side of his bed, and he takes up the space she leaves for him.

“Don’t worry,” he says, throwing his shirt off. “I’ll forego taking my pants off.”

She quietly laughs. “How gentlemanly of you. Maybe you’re not as unrefined as you think you are.”

He wraps his hands around her waist. “I’m definitely unrefined,” he says, his voice rumbling into her neck. Then he bites it and kisses it. She sighs, running her fingers through his shaggy hair.

“Bigby,” she says, and he shifts to look at her. They lie beside each other, facing each other. “I just want to thank you.”

“What for? For letting you sleep here?”

She smiles. “No, just…for continuing to pursue me. For not letting my rejections dissuade you.”

“I don’t think anything could dissuade me,” he admits.

“I…have a hard time with this.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll probably be difficult.”

“You’re always difficult,” he says.

She pushes at him but puts her hand on his chest.

“You’re not the easiest to deal with, either,” she counters.

He gazes at her, then kisses her, long and tender. They melt into one another.

Soon, they fall asleep, his arm curled around her hip and her face against his chest. And truly, Bigby sleeps the deepest he’s ever slept before, surrounded by the scent of the woman that makes his soul full. 


End file.
